Divided Realities
by cravethesun
Summary: We all like to think we understand. But sometimes all we understand is our own inner fear. Companion piece to 'Memories of Sleep'.


Divided Realities  
  
Author's Note—this is just a little thing I wrote from Maxie's POV to go along with 'Memories of Sleep'. Zander is a little more remote in this, and Maxie slightly more cynical. Also, this is my first story that is completely cursing-free! Which made it ten times harder!  
  
Disclaimer—Nothing's mine.

With my hair dark, I feel dangerous. Dangerous and wildly desirable.

I had coloured it myself, hands stained and shaking beneath the scalding water of our ancient rusty sink. And when I finished, I stood in front of our lone mirror, analyzing from every available angle. With my head tilted downwards and my eyes half-closed, I looked alluring. With my hair tied up sleekly and my eyes narrowed, I looked intelligent and professional. For once, I could be something truly different. I loved it.

Zander felt differently.

He appeared, as he usually did, disheveled and smelling faintly of cigarettes and cologne after being God knows where that evening. I had stopped asking. Or maybe I never had really begun to. He paused in the bedroom doorway, grasping the frame to stretch his back and shoulder muscles that were always unbelievably sore and tense as I beckoned him to bed. I couldn't help myself. I never could, not around him.

But this time he stopped mid-arch, arms falling gingerly to his sides. His face was still and impassive and, as it had become more and more recently for me, unreadable.

"Maxie." His voice, so low and rough, the one that I had dreamed of for so many endless nights after the fire.

"What?" I smiled, fluffing it out over my shoulders. "Do you like it?" His pause before answering seemed to linger eternally so I stated, perhaps needlessly: "It's like you can't even recognize me. I love it."

Finally, brief movement, a muscle in his cheek twitching violently before he turned wordlessly, leaving me splayed out in bed, still unthinkingly caressing my newly burnished chestnut hair. Seconds later I heard the kitchen cupboards clattering, the opening and closing of the freezer, and then the splash of vodka hitting the bottom of the glass.

I was crimson with humiliation. How could I have thought he would like it? It was as though I was deliberately sabotaging myself, as I reminded him of all the things he had loved and lost. Namely, Emily.

I fell asleep, tangled in the sheets, dried tears leaving my face with an unbecoming sheen.

I'm not sure how much later it was when I felt his knuckles drag slowly against my mouth, his other hand curved around my body, tracing languorous circles upon my skin. Ignoring my barely-coherent murmurings, he gathered me in his arms, kissing my shoulder indolently, the pressure of his lips and the subtle scratch of his stubble lulling me back to sleep.

"Maxie," He whispered, his vodka-soaked breathe circling us slowly, binding us together. "You're beautiful."

But only to him. And only when there was no one else.

Lucas once called me the dumbest person in Port Charles. Georgia's favourite adjective to describe me had always been _dense_. And to Kyle, I was nothing more than "_that stupid slut_".

But even I know that Zander will never feel the way that I do.

Sometimes I'd wake up at night and see him standing at the window, or lying motionless, eyes wide and gleaming in the darkness, and I would know exactly what he was thinking of. If his mouth was slightly curved, a wry smile playing on his lips, he was thinking about his brother. If his brow was slightly furrowed, his eyes darkened, he was more than likely thinking of Cameron. But the worst was when he had that far-away, wistful look in his eyes. Because then I knew, I _knew_.

He was thinking about Emily.

And it was almost unbearable.

Sometimes I imagine what brought him to my window that night, the night where he told me he needed me and begged me to come with him, anywhere, just away from Port Charles. At the time I had been in shock, because Zander-he was dead. It was as if God had heard my prayers, felt my longing, and brought him back.

Of course I had gone with him. There was nothing to keep me. Not my mother, not Kyle, not even Mac or Georgie. And it wasn't as if I had some great academic career ahead of me. Just Zander, his arms reaching out for me, his voice breaking.

_"Maxie, please. You're the only one I can trust...you're the only one who understands me." _

And then my hand, tentative and unsteady, touching his face, before he crushed me to him, burying his lips in mine.

Yes, I had gone.

But now when I think back, I picture Zander stumbling away from Emily, rejected again and stung by her happiness with Nicolas. And he's left despondent and lonely and knowing that there would be only one person on his side, one person who would believe everything he said and follow him to wherever he wanted to go. Then that's when he comes to my window. And that's even more unbearable.

So now, when he whispers into my ear, telling me that I'm gorgeous, telling me not to change, never change, not for _him,_ I'm not sure if I can believe him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry I took you away. You have to-just, please, don't change. Don't let me do that to you. You're perfect Maxie, you're absolutely perfect. And I'll keep you safe." He says this earnestly, suddenly sober, and all I can do is nod, silently, as he takes my hand in his.

Because this is reality now. This is the way it's going to be.

For both of us.

-end-


End file.
